


Already Dead

by asarcasticwitch



Series: Teen Wolf Bingo [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Breeding Kink, Cock Slut Stiles Stilinski, Come Inflation, Coming Untouched, Consensual Kink, Crossdressing, Dildos, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Halloween Costumes, Inventive Punishments, Lingerie, Loss of Control, M/M, Masturbation, Not Beta Read, Older Man/Younger Man, POV Third Person, Peter Hale is a Little Shit, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Sex-Ban, Stiles Stilinski as Little Red Riding Hood, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Teasing, Top Peter Hale, Vampire Stiles Stilinski, Wolfed Out Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25611745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asarcasticwitch/pseuds/asarcasticwitch
Summary: While a wooden stake through the heart will prove inconvenient to a child of the night, it won’t outright wipe them from the face of the earth. They may be rendered inert if the action is paired with a good ole fashioned decapitation. But after a hearty dose of virgin blood, their wounds, however severe, will knit back together; several days and they’ll be right as rain.There is one thing, however, written throughout the myths and legends regarding vampires that is entirely true—if not a little understated.Garlic.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Teen Wolf Bingo [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1837195
Comments: 18
Kudos: 305
Collections: Teen Wolf Bingo





	Already Dead

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the 'Vampires' square on my Teen Wolf Bingo card.
> 
> Just something a little smutty and a whole lot silly. I love writing these two so much; it's actually ridiculous how obsessed I am.
> 
> I know diddly squat about vampire legends except what I've watched in movies and read in books, so I've exaggerated what I do know and even made some of it up as I went along for the entertainment value. It's just a bit of fun and all I could come up with for this prompt, so let's not dwell on the copious inaccuracies. 
> 
> Grammarly is my Beta so expect mistakes.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Being a vampire isn’t as limiting as all those movies make it out to be.

Sunlight doesn’t turn them to ash; it actually doesn’t even burn. Walking along the beach on a hot summer’s day does nothing more than feel pleasing against their cold dead skin. No need for sunblock as there’s zero risk of developing skin cancer—being already dead and all—so it’s actually a bonus.

They don’t need to be explicitly invited into someone’s home before stepping foot over the threshold. Of course, it’s still considered common courtesy to be asked into someone’s abode before waltzing in uninvited. But there’s no invisible barrier like in the cult classics and no spontaneous combustion if you do manage to break through the imperceptible force-field. 

Holy water is also complete bullshit; a vampire could take a bath in the stuff with no adverse effects. It’s just an old wives tale; propaganda created by Christians to big up their God and savior, but in this case, he ain’t all that. 

While a wooden stake through the heart will prove inconvenient to a child of the night, it won’t outright wipe them from the face of the earth. They may be rendered inert if the action is paired with a good ole fashioned decapitation. But after a hearty dose of virgin blood, their wounds, however severe, will knit back together; several days and they’ll be right as rain.

There is one thing, however, written throughout the myths and legends regarding vampires that is entirely true—if not a little understated. 

_Garlic_. 

Whatever deity decided out of every possible way you could inhibit a monster of the living dead, eating garlic seemed the most rational has a roaring sense of humor. 

What’s worse is that according to the stories humans have fabricated over the years, garlic is just a way of warding off a vampire; wear a necklace of the stuff or hang it on your door, and you’ll be free from becoming the next victim. 

While that is apparently one hundred percent true, what humans aren’t aware of— _thankfully_ —is that it’s a lot more effective against the creatures than merely fending them off or slowing them down.

Feeding garlic to a vampire can actually wipe them out.

In essence, they can withstand the searing heat of sunlight, take a wooden spike through their heart, survive beheading, cover themselves in all the religious paraphernalia they can get their hands on, but one tiny lick of an innocuous-looking vegetable and they’re gone, dust, departed for eternity and not just for show.

It’s laughable, really.

As it stands, Stiles absolutely adores garlic. He’s a foodie, well, he _was_ until he joined the dead-but-undead parade a little over six months ago. Garlic is a household staple; it can be added to anything savory to give it that extra zing.

Pasta was his favorite before the warm tingle of human blood sliding down his throat was the only sustenance to satisfy his appetite. 

He found out pretty quickly that being a vampire isn't actually all that bad. Being the slut for knowledge that he is, it took him no time to research the shit out of it. The only downfall he’s come across so far is the ‘living forever' part; being immortal and practically invincible while his loved ones die around him is a bit of a bummer. But he’s decided not to think too much about it, not until it’s crucial.

He spends most of his days with Deaton trying to concoct a potion or spell that can either reverse his vampirism or let him end things on his terms when the time is right. He’s technically still only twenty-one, so he hopefully has a fair few years left to spend with his friends and family before having to worry about solutions. 

Anyway, back to the whole garlic issue, and maybe it’s time to indicate the fact that Peter Hale is an asshole.

A gigantic, insufferable asshole. 

Stiles had maybe, probably, definitely accidentally forgotten to tell Peter that he went searching for a group of vampire hunters—proper Van Helsing type dudes too—and barely escaped without being tortured.

While most of their methods wouldn’t have ended his life—or his death, _whatever—_ with no fresh blood on hand to heal him, they could've still messed him up pretty badly.

As mentioned before, stakes and the like don’t outright destroy him, but they can still prove a burden.

An extremely painful burden.

That’s solely the reason why Peter is having a tantrum. He’s being petty and petulant just because Stiles could've gotten himself hurt to the point of immobility. If he hadn’t managed to get out of that dark, dank cave, he’d have been stuck there until someone rescued him. With Peter having no idea where he was, it could've taken days, months, _‘years, Stiles, years’_ to find him.

Now, due to nearly sending the werewolf into a savage frenzy, he’s basically being punished in the worst way imaginable—by his standards, at least.

You see, being part of the supernatural community has benefitted Stiles in many ways, but the best perk of being a vamp is the insatiable sex drive. He and Peter could have wild, dirty sex from dawn 'til dusk, and he’d still be raring to go the next day.

He still aches in the best possible ways when Peter fucks him rough and hard, especially on full moons when he shifts, but he has practically no refractory period, _and_ advanced healing to boot.

It really is a gift from the Gods.

Peter being a werewolf also means he has the sexual appetite of a seasoned harlot; wolves are horny creatures by nature, so he has no trouble keeping up with Stiles—even in his advanced age. It’s safe to say there isn’t a day goes by where they aren’t all over each other like a cheap suit.

That’s why the penance Peter has decided for him is so much worse than anything he could've chosen.

Stiles thought he got off the hook, Peter’s demeanor having switched to calm and collected after his mini-meltdown about Stiles and his lack of self-preservation. So, naturally, he thought it was done, put behind them, in the past.

He should've known better.

The wolf is never one to let go of a grudge; he’s the pettiest asshole out there. Stiles should've known he’d be disciplined one way or another. 

This afternoon, Peter had come home with bags upon bags of groceries, saying in his usual whimsical tone that he was going to cook dinner. Stiles was okay with that; while he doesn’t eat human food, he still enjoys watching Peter cook up his wonderful creations while staring at him in longing and remembrance.

What he didn’t count on, however, was his absolute dick-wad of a boyfriend cooking himself the garlicky-est pasta dish known to man, accompanied with heaping piles of garlic bread. 

Regarding the aforementioned bulbous plant, it takes two whole weeks for it to be out of Peter’s system enough for Stiles to be able to go near him again.

How he came across that little nugget of information is all curtesy of Deaton when the man decided to educate him on what is practically vampire poison. Smelling it is a deterrent, but consuming it, even just the remnants on Peter’s tongue, could eliminate him, so if he wants to stay alive— _dead_ —he and Peter will be at arm’s length for Two. Whole. Weeks.

_Fucking jackass._

“Really, Peter?” Stiles huffs as he watches the man casually twist the spaghetti onto his fork. He’s trying his hardest not to stamp his foot like a spoilt child. “You do realize this is going to punish you just as much as me.”

Peter smirks around his mouthful, that God awful curl to his lips that in equal measure gets Stiles all hot and bothered while also deepening his urge to deck him. “Oh, but Stiles, while I am an insatiable creature and do enjoy debauching you at every given opportunity, I was practically a nun from the moment I escaped that fire to the day you first jumped on me at your eighteenth birthday party. I have more control, and I’m confident I can last two weeks, whereas you, my dear cherub, will break.” He’s so pleased with himself, the self-satisfaction radiating off him like the stench from fresh shit. 

Stiles wants to punch him.

“Pft, I can last.” He lifts his chin defiantly, crossing his arms over his chest in a show of feigned nonchalance. “Just you watch.” At Peter’s raised eyebrow and deepening smug grin, Stiles’ mask falls. He scoffs, pointing an accusing finger at the man. “And for the record, you spent six of those years in a coma, Peter, so that doesn’t count in your celibacy calendar.”

“Hm, perhaps not,” Peter shrugs, setting down his cutlery in favor of leaning back in his chair, swirling his wine around the glass like the pretentious prick he is. “But, I’m still less likely to cave than you, so suck it up, buttercup. This is your punishment for nearly getting yourself killed; let’s just hope you learn your lesson.” 

“I’m already dead, fuck-o,” Stiles retorts a little dramatically. “And just you wait, you’ll be begging to fuck me before the two weeks is out, and you’ll regret your methods with tears in your eyes.”

Peter's smile turns challenging. “We’ll see.”

~

Three days and Stiles is beginning to shake.

He’s never done drugs, but he guesses this is similar to withdrawal symptoms. His left eye twitches every so often when he forgets to blink, his complexion somehow even paler than usual, and he’s convinced he hears voices in the silence.

It’s like his ADHD has returned with a vengeance.

He needs Peter’s dick up his ass like yesterday. Hell, at this point, he’d even settle for just the tip.

No, he won’t give in; he’s just being melodramatic; it’s just boredom, that’s all. He needs to find a distraction, something to occupy his time other than screwing his devastatingly gorgeous lover.

It’s not as if he could surrender anyways even if he were so inclined to yield; getting within a foot of the man has him almost heaving his guts up, the smell still lingering on his person from that one meal he’d eaten three days ago.

Peter was kind enough to purify the apartment so as not to accidentally make Stiles sick whenever he walks into a cloud of the cloying aroma—he’s not that much of a sadist. But those few bites he consumed was enough to keep himself smelling pungent no matter how many times he brushes his teeth.

Stiles will be delirious by the end of the fortnight; he wonders if vampires can go feral like werewolves.

He shudders at the thought. 

Peter doesn’t look affected, just going about his day as if nothing is out of the ordinary, which just irritates Stiles even more.

Fucking adaptable asshole, if Stiles weren’t so hopelessly in love with him, he’d have kicked him out on his ass after the first twelve hours. 

Deep down, he knows he deserves it; while they don’t precisely label themselves as a Dom and sub relationship, Stiles functions better with a little give and take in the control department. Peter is dominant by nature, and that doesn’t stop in the bedroom. Stiles enjoys giving over the power so he can get out his own head, just relax, and be taken care of.

Peter being an Alpha, thrives off taking care of his mate, so it wasn’t a hardship for him to incorporate treats and punishments into their dynamic whenever Stiles told him it would help him cope better with the whole vampire thing.

He stresses about it often, and Peter is always there to give him what he needs. Sometimes it’s being fucked into the mattress, sometimes it's making love, and sometimes it’s something completely un-sexual, like kneeling between Peter’s thighs while the wolf pets his hair and tells him stories. It might seem weird to those outside looking in, but for them, it works. 

They both prefer not to classify their relationship as part of the whole BDSM scene; it’s not as technical as all that. They have safe words—not that they’ve ever done anything to warrant the use of them—but it’s more just following their natural instincts, yielding to their baser appetites rather than outright practicing kink.

Stiles always accepts his punishment as Peter sees fit, and while this time may seem a little excessive to some, perhaps even extreme given the dangers of it, he'll grin and bear it as he usually does.

Of course, that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s not going to grumble every step of the way, or at the very least make this as difficult for his Alpha as it is for him. If he has to suffer, he’s going to be the little shit he’s dubbed to be and make his mate suffer with him. 

“You’re a jackass,” Stiles deadpans, staring at Peter as he lounges across the sofa like a contented house cat. “Did you know that?”

“I've been told,” Peter says, smirking as he reads his book without looking up at Stiles.

“Well, I’m telling you again.”

“Struggling, sweetheart?”

“Nope,” Stiles mumbles, his lack of a heartbeat thankfully not there to betray him. He has a plan; he doesn’t need his lies interfering right now. “I can still jerk off, so it’s not as if I’m missing anything; I can just fuck myself on my dildo. I don’t need _you_ to make me feel good.”

Stiles swears he sees Peter’s eyes flicker red for a split second, but the wolf doesn’t react otherwise. “Good luck with that, but we both know none of those toys you have will ever fill you like I can.”

“Pft,” Stiles huffs, clicking his tongue as he smiles smugly. “Wanna bet?”

Stiles saunters off in the direction of their bedroom, intent on proving the wolf wrong.

He doesn’t need the man’s dick; he can get himself off no problem. He managed before he and Peter got together, so why not now? 

He kneels beside the bed, leaning towards the floor to search for their box of tricks. 

With an inaudible victory shout, he pulls the heavy chest out, throwing it haphazardly on the bed. He makes quick work of stripping out of his clothes, unashamed of his nudity in broad daylight, he’s in his own apartment, and if Peter wants to come watch, then he can. 

Stiles’ dick twitches at the thought of Peter watching him fuck himself, taunting the wolf into regret with just a few well-rehearsed whimpers and moans. 

Peter won’t be able to help himself, he’ll try his best to stay uninvolved, pretending to read in the living room, but it won’t be long before he investigates. He’s incapable of not meddling, unable to just sit by idly when he could be tampering with people’s sanity. 

Stiles counts on the wolf leaning up against the doorframe before long, talking in that low velvety voice, teasing Stiles into an incoherent, sobbing mess, but he won’t give in.

Not this time.

Stiles positions himself on the bed, lying on his back, knees bent and spread open to the sides. He’s keyed up; three days without sex is proving more of a hardship than he seriously anticipated. He’s under no illusion it'll take an embarrassingly short amount of time to push himself over the edge.

Without hesitation, he slicks up a few of his fingers, circling them around his hole before plunging two in as far as they'll go. He winces a little at the stretch; while he’s no blushing virgin, three days is ample time for everything to go back to normal after the last time Peter fucked him until he was gaping.

He lets out a soft moan at the memory; Peter had been shifted, almost feral as the moon coaxed the beast to the fore. Had he been a woman, Stiles is confident Peter would’ve knocked him up with the floods of come he shot right into his guts.

His belly actually bulged; it was incredible.

Stiles works himself up to three fingers, managing to graze his prostate every so often, but the angle making it too awkward to aim every time. He’s panting heavily, sweat slickening his skin as he fucks himself with an air of impatience.

Three days is the longest he’s gone without something inside him since he and Peter started dating; he’s ready to explode.

Deeming himself stretched enough, he removes his hand, using the excess lube to coat the toy he picked out of the box. It’s the biggest one they have, the closest to Peter's size but still nowhere near the thickness.

It’ll have to do.

He sits up on his knees, steadying the dildo with his hand around the base, positioning himself a little above. Taking a deep breath, he lowers himself onto the first few inches, his head falling back as a guttural groan rips from his chest. It’s at that fine line between pleasure and pain, but after a few moments pause to adjust, he keeps going until he’s fully seated.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he curses on a ragged breath as the smooth silicone hollows him out. His legs are already trembling, his back arched as he keeps his fingers wrapped around the root of the toy, preventing it from shifting position too much.

It takes him several experimental bucks to work up a steady rhythm, rolling his hips deliberately to hit that sweet spot every time. He imagines himself riding Peter's cock, mouth hanging open as high-pitched mewls fall unbidden from his lips.

He wraps his free hand around his leaking dick, stroking languidly as he lifts himself up and down, thighs burning as his muscles are forced past their limits.

“Well, aren’t you a sight,” Peter purrs from the doorway, and Stiles only just manages to hide his victorious smirk.

_Showtime._

“Feels so good, Peter,” he moans, picking up the pace, his orgasm burning low in his gut, threatening to consume him any moment.

“Hm, I bet it does, sweetheart.” Peter crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorframe as if unfazed. Still, even with his expression impassive, Stiles doesn’t imagine how his breath stutters, eyes following every movement with predatory hunger. “Three whole days, you must be absolutely desperate.”

Stiles turns up his grunts to pornographic levels, knowing it gets his wolf hard enough to hammer nails when he’s loud. A shiver runs through him as the sloppy wet sounds fill his ears, a spark shooting straight to his cock at the vulgarity of it. 

He turns his gaze fully to the man, relishing in the tense line of his shoulders, the twitching bulge in his jeans, and how his pupils have blown black with desire. There's also a brutal clench in his jaw, his knuckles blooming white with how tight he’s clutching his hands into fists.

“I wish it was you,” he almost sobs, voice needy and broken. “Want you to fill me up, to feel your come dripping out of me for days.”

He’s so close, just a few more moments and he’ll be right there, but he wants to take Peter crumbling down with him.

He lets go of the toy, using his hand to hold himself up as he bows his back. Instead of lifting himself up and down, he grinds lewdly, keeping a firm pressure against that delicate spot inside him, every single nerve ending alight with searing flame.

The muscles in his stomach grow taut as he strips his cock fast, thumb swiping over the wetness at the slit, chasing that earthshattering end. 

He bites his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes locking firmly with Peters, glittering with feigned innocence. “Breed me, Alpha,” he whimpers, emphasizing the honorific as each syllable flows off his tongue like honey.

_Got him._

Peter growls, eyes bleeding scarlet as his clawed fist slams into the doorframe. Stiles manages a lazy smile before tipping his head backward, baring the long pale expanse of his throat, his body convulsing violently as he comes hard. 

“Little shit,” Peter rumbles, nostrils flaring at the scent of Stiles’ release now painting the sheets.

“Sorry, Alpha,” he chirps breathlessly.

He’s not sorry at all, and Peter knows it. 

After a moment of panting, basking in the aftershocks, Stiles leers at the bulge in the wolf’s jeans, smirking filthily. “That looks painful; you really should go take care of it.”

Peter storms out of the room, the bathroom door slamming shut a few seconds later, the walls of the apartment quaking with the force.

Stiles flops gracelessly onto the crumpled bedding below in a fit of unrestrained giggles. 

Stiles: one. Peter: nil.

~

Six days in, and he’s back to gagging for some real cock.

The dildo and his own hands have taken the edge off, but it’s just not the same. Having Peter rumbling and panting above him, whispering dirty things into his ear as he pounds him six ways to Sunday, is infinitely superior to his silicone buddy.

While toys are pleasurable enough, now that he’s intimately familiar with the real thing, they’re just not as satisfying.

At this point, he's sure he’ll be rocking in the corner of the room after the full fourteen days.

He may even have to be admitted to Eichen. 

God, he has a problem. Not being able to hack two weeks without sex is probably not what one would call _healthy_ , but he doesn’t care.

He’s insatiable; he needs dick.

Not for the first time, he wonders if the asshole that sired him wasn’t also part succubus.

“Honey, I’m home.” Stiles hears Peter sing from the door, he glares expectantly at the threshold in anticipation for the man to walk through, but his face drops instantly when he takes in the sight of him.

Peter is donning the most elegant suit—sans jacket—he’s ever seen; it should be illegal how well fitted it is.

His muscular thighs bulge through the marled fabric, the seams clinging on with nothing but pure faith as every step stretches the stitching to its limits.

The crisp white shirt and grey waistcoat cover every contour of his chest deliciously; it’s bordering on public indecency. His sleeves are rolled up his strong forearms, protruding veins and all on display.

Stiles makes a high pitched keen in his throat, cock springing into action as soon as Peter walks past and gives a view of his perfectly sculpted ass.

_Jesus suffering Christ have mercy._

“You did this on purpose,” Stiles accuses, aiming for stern but missing the mark by a long shot, his voice betraying him with how turned on he is.

Peter bats his eyelashes, the picture of virtuous ignorance. “Whatever do you mean, sweet boy?”

Stiles scoffs, waving his hand in a frenetic gesture to Peter's entire being, ignoring the unsubtle act of obliviousness. “This, you look like fucking sin, and I can’t even climb you like a tree ’cause you still reek of goddamn garlic.”

Stiles’ dick is pulsing; he wants to jump the wolf’s bones, bend over for him across the dining room table, wear those dextrous fingers as a constricting collar around the back of his throat as he’s forced to take it. The soft fabric of the suit rubbing luxuriously against his ass and thighs as Peter fucks him like a bitch in heat. 

“And whose faults that?” Peter playfully chides, snapping Stiles out of his depraved daydreaming. He grins knowingly as he scents the air, clued into exactly how frustrated Stiles is right now. 

“Yours, you jackass,” Stiles grouses bitterly, palming himself through his jeans to ease the ache.

He’s already masturbated five times today, and it's barely lunchtime; he really doesn’t want to risk chafing, if he can help it. 

“Nope, you were naughty, my dear boy.” Peter ignores Stiles’ whine as he sprawls himself attractively on the sofa. He looks like a fucking model; it’s so unfair. “You brought this upon yourself.” 

Stiles scowls at the man when he realizes it, Peter winking back as the cogs in his head finally align.

This is no longer about the original punishment; this is Peter retaliating for his little show the other day. 

Well, if the wolf wants to play those games, _bring it on_.

~

Stiles’ revenge comes in the form of some sexy attire of his own.

Granted, his is a little more _revealing_ than Peters, not exactly on the same wavelength, but he’s sure it'll work like a charm.

You see, Peter often harps on about seeing Stiles in all manner of outfits; on more than one occasion, he’s whispered seductively in Stiles’ ear how much he’d love to see him in something red and skimpy.

Apparently, the color matches delightfully with his skin, the harsh blood shade a beautifully stark contrast against his pale, mole dotted flesh. 

Stiles would be inclined to agree as he stares at himself in the mirror, eyebrow cocked approvingly at what he sees.

He looks like the perfect prey for the Big Bad Wolf.

“Peter,” he hollers in his best come-hither voice. “Would you come here a sec? I need your opinion on something.” He smirks at his reflection, a wicked thing that only heightens in intensity when the tell-tale _thud_ of his wolf’s footsteps draw closer to the bedroom.

“You know I can hear you perfectly well at a whisper, my sweet, there’s really no need to-” Peter’s words die in his throat as he rounds the corner, stopping dead in his tracks as his gaze lands on Stiles.

The wolf’s mouth hangs open, like a fish taking in heaping gulps of water; Stiles is certain the man would deny to his death how close he is to salivating.

Peter’s eyes rake over his figure, from the cape draped over his broad shoulders, right down to his frilly cotton covered feet. He’s clearly lost the ability to form words; pupils dilated to the point of cartoon proportion.

Stiles also clocks the way the man is swaying on his feet, hand reaching out to steady himself against the wall lest he falls to his knees.

Stiles suppresses his laugh, putting on an indecisive look, playing the game like the astounding actor he is. “Scott asked me to a party for Halloween; I was thinking about wearing this,” he chirps, twirling back and forth in front of the mirror, billowing layers of ruby fabric swishing gracefully with his movements. “What do you think?”

“I-” Peter manages to croak out, the noise sounding dry.

Stiles struggles to hold back his triumphant emotions.

The wolf clears his throat, finally taking his first step into the room, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he prowls forward. “You look utterly delectable... _Little Red_.”

Stiles took it upon himself to acquire what most fancy dress stores would call a ‘sexy red riding hood’ costume. However, he didn’t just pick up the first one he could find in Walmart—all that cheap polyester isn’t particularly attractive. Oh no, he went all out, drove several miles to a store offering only the best quality outfits for occasions such as this.

He was surprised how quickly he found exactly what he was looking for, the saleswoman not even hesitating for a second in helping him search for something he can use to tempt his unsuspecting boyfriend. She was practically giddy with second-hand excitement when Stiles walked away with an entirely indecent laced-back dress, frilled stockings, white tulle petticoat, and silky red cape.

He thanks whatever God that will listen for blessing him with the ability to conjure up such wonderful ideas. 

“You look good enough to eat,” Peter slurs through his fangs, getting as close as he can to Stiles without setting off his gag reflex with the still lingering scent.

A shiver crawls down Stiles’ spine, goosebumps prickling across his skin at Peter’s dark tone, his voice low and dangerous, the rumbling sound of a predator.

While the man is still a few feet away, he somehow manages to loom over Stiles like a menacing shadow, a ferocious beast cornering its prey.

Stiles gulps audibly but squares his shoulders, brushing off the effect the wolf has on him to continue with his tease. “You really think so? I’m worried it’ll be too much, y’know...” he trails off, once again letting the delicate skirt flutter enticingly through the air.

Lifting the hem, he extends one of his long legs, the white knee-high’s clinging to his lean muscles perfectly—if he does say so himself. He didn’t bother with any shoes, has never seen the appeal in wearing heels, so he stuck to being partially barefoot, not that Peter seems to mind the missing apparel.

If he were to bend over, the dress would leave next to nothing to the imagination, especially with the flimsy string Victoria Secret claimed to be underwear he currently has settled between his cheeks—just another purchase he made especially for this purpose.

_Oh, what’s that on the floor?_

He really should lean down and take a closer look.

An animalistic vibration echoes behind him as he arches forward. His wolf has front row seats to all of his wares right now, no doubt one frayed thread of control away from pouncing.

Stiles isn’t aiming to be _too_ cruel, though; he doesn’t want to wind Peter up to the point of doing something he’ll regret—like causing Stiles’ demise. He just wants to teach the man a lesson, play him at his own game.

He stretches back up to standing, giving the man a show worthy of the stage at the Moulin Rouge.

He’s not that merciful.

“I would say that you have no idea what you’re doing to me right now,” Peter murmurs, every exhale heavy as he fights against his baser urges. “But I’m under no illusion that you know _exactly_ what you’re doing, you little devil.”

“I have no idea what you mean, big bad,” he bats his lush eyelashes, mocking the look Peter gave him after his very same accusation yesterday. “I’m merely trying on outfits for a party; I’m completely innocent.”

Peter snorts but says nothing, staring directly at Stiles’ face in the mirror as if he’s trying to figure out a way to mount him without the deadly consequences.

He looks wrecked, sweat beading on his forehead, fangs biting into his bottom lip, blood drying as they pierce the flesh before the wound knits back together. His claws are raking against his own palm, a distraction from tearing through Stiles’ clothes as they so crave.

He wants to take, wants to hunt Stiles down in the woods as his instincts dictate.

Peter was right; Stiles knew precisely what he was doing when he picked the attire. It may seem cliché, but he knows the wolf better than he knows himself, knew this hint at the old fairy-tale would drive the animal wild, awaken that compulsion deep inside him to chase down his mate, to pin him to the forest floor and breed him until he's round with pups.

Not like that can happen, Stiles _obviously_ lacking the appropriate parts for such a coupling, but amidst the primal haze, the wolf is often too far gone to realize it. 

Peter may be a complex man, an unexplainable enigma at times, but his wolf is easily deciphered.

Stiles unclasps the cape, letting the smooth material fall from his hands to pool around his feet.

Peter whimpers, irises sparkling red as he notices the velvet choker tied taut around Stiles’ throat. He rocks on the balls of his feet, wanting nothing more than to take another step forward, no doubt fantasizing about curling his fingers through the thin slip of cloth, controlling Stiles’ airflow with the strength of his grasp.

Stiles smirks at the man’s reaction, no longer bothering to hide his blatant act. “I’m surprised you’ve never asked to collar me,” he traces the fabric with his fingers, slow and deliberate. “I won’t lie; I think I’d rather enjoy it.”

“Would you now?” Peter whispers distractedly, gaze following Stiles’ hand.

“Hm, just another way to show the world that I belong to you.”

Peter’s eyes snap up, body seemingly moving of its own accord as he barrels forward, his intentions crystal clear in his determined expression.

At the very last second, Stiles uses his vampiric speed to dodge, letting the man get close enough for the putrid scent to overwhelm him before appearing behind him in a maneuver quick enough to disorientate.

He cackles gleefully as Peter stumbles into the mirror, his usual lupine grace faltering as his mind focuses solely on _mate_.

Stiles doubles over in his amusement as the wolf growls threateningly. “Tsk, tsk,” he tuts, holding out his palm in a _stop_ gesture when the man once again steps towards him. Peter obeys, shaking his head to clear the fog of carnal lust. “You’re the one who started this war, oh, Alpha mine, you must endure the consequences.”

Stiles’ face splits into a blinding grin at Peters glare before he turns on his heel, sashaying out of the room with more swing in his hips than strictly necessary.

Stiles: two. Peter: one.

~

It goes on like that for the next few days, a back and forth battle of trying to one-up each other, driving them both into the realm of delirium with sexual frustration.

Stiles isn’t sure what exactly they’re trying to gain, it’s not as if they can do anything about their arousal, not until the fourteenth day, and this little _competition_ is just proving to vex them both even more. 

Peter has wolfed out several times already, and Stiles has threatened to throw more than one priceless vase at the man’s head. It’s a mess, and they’re both almost vibrating out of their skins for sex.

It’s becoming an issue.

Stiles has never in his whole life awoken from as many wet dreams as in the last several days—going to bed with blue balls apparently does that to a man.

All that aside, though, it’s so entertaining. When he’s not grumbling at the feeling of emptiness or complaining that his asshole will shrivel up from being unused, he’s actually having fun at Peter’s expense.

What amuses him the most is that this was supposed to be _his_ punishment, but as he predicted in the beginning, Peter is feeling the effects just as much as him—if not more, considering a wolf’s tactile instincts.

Oh, how he does love being proved right.

Even if it wasn’t at the very least slightly humorous, neither of them are willing to admit defeat, both too stubborn and spiteful to wave the white flag.

It’s no longer about Stiles being resolved of his misdeeds; it’s a sport to see who will plead insanity first. 

Secretly, Stiles bets on himself, but the wolf doesn’t need to know that.

~

Day twelve and Stiles is scolded by numerous pack members for his _‘irritable behavior’_.

Derek can go fuck himself with a rusty fork; the scent of repressed anger radiating off the sourwolf is enough to choke a donkey; he’s as disagreeable as they come, so he doesn’t have a leg to stand on.

Lydia told them to go home and get it out of their systems, not to come back until they're ready to act like rational human beings.

Well, jokes on you, Lydia, neither of them will ever be even remotely human again, so _suck on that._

Even Deaton thought it necessary to stick in his two cents worth, the stoic asshole actually saying something other than the cryptic bullshit that usually comes out of his mouth. He jokingly suggested Peter invest in a more potent mouthwash, earning him a snicker and not-so-subtle low-five from Scott.

Isaac, Boyd, and Liam sat back and watched the show unfold; had Derek’s cupboards magically supplied popcorn, they’d have been munching on that throughout the proceedings, without a doubt. 

Jackson and Erica got their asses handed to them for offering to order Stiles a hooker; it was pretty funny right up until the moment Stiles’ brain decided that Peter being a possessive bastard was like direct stimulation to his dick.

In the end, both he and Peter were dragged out of the pack meeting by their ears—Braeden wasn’t playing any games.

Peter was indignant as always, considering he’s the Alpha, but as it turns out, he didn’t have the mental capacity to give a substantial argument on the subject.

Stiles hazards a sideways glance at his boyfriend from the passenger seat of the wolf’s Cobra, an impish grin curling his lip. “Y'know, Jackson and Erica’s idea wasn’t half bad, maybe hiring a-”

“Stiles,” Peter snarls, cutting off his goading with a sharp warning. “I swear to the Gods if you finish that sentence, as soon as this cursed fortnight is over, I will whip your ass until its cherry red; you’ll not be able to sit for weeks, vampiric healing be damned.”

Stiles gulps, squirming further into the cushiony leather as his hole clenches impulsively. Heat ignites in his belly at the threat; he must be absolutely starved for sexual attention if the thought of whipping renders his insides a tingly pool of complete mush.

Usually, the thought of spanking or other forms of corporal punishment makes him want to beg for mercy, to cry and plead for anything else, but right now, it sounds very appealing.

“Hm, is that a promise?” he squeaks, dick chubbing up in his pants.

Peter huffs a laugh, shaking his head in faux exasperation. “You’ve got some serious issues, my dear boy.”

Stiles squawks, arms flailing as he twists around to face the wolf. “I resent that statement. I’m not the one dishing out sexy threats here, Peter.” At the judgmental quirk of Peter’s brow, he sighs in defeat, flopping back into his seat with exaggerated dramatics. “I’m at the end of my rope here.”

“You’re not the only one, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, well, maybe next time you’ll think twice about putting us both on a two-week sex ban.” Stiles gives Peter a cheeky smile, crossing his arms with sassy finality—as is his prerogative.

Two more days.

~

Stiles wakes with a start, something in the back of his mind urging him to get the fuck up out of bed.

_Rude._

He groans, exhausted, smacking his lips after a tremendous yawn takes over him.

What could possibly be so urgent that he needed to be interrupted halfway through a _very_ vivid dream about-

Stiles cuts off that train of thought, eyes opening comically wide as he reaches over to snatch his phone from the side table.

Suddenly he’s wide awake.

If his heart still worked, it would be beating wildly out of his chest. “It's day fourteen.”

_It's. Day. Fourteen._

He rips away the covers, stumbling none too gracefully out of bed; he’s almost at the bedroom door when he stops, hand halting in mid-air above the handle.

While the thought of delaying any more than necessary isn’t overly desirable, he really needs to have a shower first, get himself squeaky clean before propositioning Peter.

It takes all his willpower to haul himself away from the door, scrambling unceremoniously towards the en-suite, undressing hurriedly as he goes. The voice in his head is screaming at him to forget hygiene and just get on with fulfilling his craving, but he manages to ignore it.

Barely. 

Fifteen more minutes won’t hurt him. He’ll thank himself for it later when there’s less mess to clean up.

~

“So,” Stiles purses his lips, sucking his teeth as he waltzes casually into the living room wearing nothing but a flimsy towel around his waist. “It’s been fourteen days.” He leans against the doorframe assessing Peter as he reads his book.

The Alpha hasn’t turned the page once since Stiles entered the room; he ain’t fooling anyone with his relaxed facade.

“Has it?” Peter questions noncommittally. “I hadn’t realized.” He doesn’t bother looking up from the page, his expression not giving anything away, but Stiles knows how to read his body language.

He’s wound tighter than a two-dollar watch. 

“Hm.”

The silence between them stretches for all of two seconds before they both lunge; teeth, tongues, and nails battling amidst the flurry of flailing limbs to devour, to fuse their bodies and souls after what feels like an eternity.

Peter's novel is forgotten, torn apart as its tossed through the air, paper scattering around them like heavy snow as they claim each other’s mouths. 

They don’t even bother relocating to the bedroom, too far gone in their lust to care where they land—the sofa apparently.

Peter falls back onto the cushions, dragging Stiles down to straddle his lap.

They’re naked, clothes and towel long gone, probably scraps for the trash with how Peter sliced through them mercilessly. 

“Fuck, Peter, I need you,” Stiles moans wantonly into the man’s mouth, rolling his hips to gain a modicum of friction for his dripping cock, already painfully hard.

To be honest, it’s been like that since the moment he woke up, the anticipation not allowing it to flag, even in the shower. 

Peter swallows every one of his sounds greedily, meeting his movements with frantic urgency, his own length red and angry with how desperate he is. “Please tell me you’ve already prepped,” the man pleads as he starts nipping sharp kisses along Stiles’ collarbone, fingers pinching at his sensitive nipples.

Stiles doesn’t answer, just grabs hold of Peter's cock, guiding it to his slicked entrance, wasting no time in slamming himself down onto every thick, glorious inch. 

"Fuck yes," Stiles hisses at the same time Peter howls his name like a benediction.

The feeling is indescribable; being split open on Peter's dick is the best sensation in the world right now, everything else outside of this room suddenly unimportant as he pursues his overdue release.

He flexes his thighs, lifting himself up and sliding back down, building up to a punishing rhythm in no time. 

Peter wraps one arm around his back, the other clutching his hip, elongated nails carving indents into Stiles’ creamy skin. The subtle pain sends sparks of pleasure straight to his core, back bowing as he chases the sting. 

“You feel so fucking good around me, so goddamn tight,” Peter murmurs, teeth sharpening to points, eyes a constant stream of red as he loses the fight against his control. “Look so beautiful, bouncing on my cock.”

“Peter, I’m not going to last,” Stiles whimpers, the familiar heat already coiling in his belly as he rides Peter as if his life depends on it. The intoxicating stretch of the wolf inside him along with the silky sweet praise bringing him barrelling towards the precipice at an alarming rate. 

“Me either, baby,” Peter admits, hips bucking up to meet his movements, his supernatural strength being put to use when Stiles’ thighs begin to tremble with exertion. “Gods, I’ve missed you so much, sweetheart. I’m going to fill you up, make sure everyone knows you’re _mine_.”

Stiles knows after a fortnight of no contact; the wolf will be going crazy to scent him, to mark him up every way possible to show who he belongs to.

God, he wants it— _needs_ _it_.

“Yes, Alpha, please,” Stiles whines, not even needing to touch himself as he hurtles towards the end. 

“Come for me, Stiles,” Peter commands, his grip bruising, tiny pinpricks of blood welling under his claws as he uses Stiles’ hips for leverage to rut in as deep as he can go. “Come for your Alpha.” 

Stiles can do nothing but obey, a slave to his desire as Peter pounds up into him in abandon. His hole clenches, body going rigid as he comes harder than he can ever remember coming before. His vision goes black, eyes rolling to the back of his head, a resounding scream tearing from his lungs.

Peter follows him into ecstasy, his face contorting with his shift as he roars through his release, his thick seed flooding Stiles’ insides, making his stomach swell, claiming him thoroughly.

Stiles goes limp, falling into Peter’s chest, nose smashing into the crook of the Alphas neck as he mewls softly with every pulse inside him.

While shifted, Peter’s orgasms last longer, meaning his cock stays hard until he’s milked of every single drop, fucking him way past overstimulation.

Several minutes it takes them to come down from the high, both still panting even as they float into that gratifying serenity. Stiles sighs contentedly against Peter’s throat, nuzzling closer to the warm, musky scent of his Alpha as he basks in the afterglow.

“I swear, Stiles,” Peter mutters through his fangs as they fail to recede, fingers lazily combing through Stiles’ damp hair. “If you ever even _think_ of putting yourself in danger like that again, I’ll kill you myself.”

Stiles snorts lazily, the sound weak in his blissfully fuck-drunk state, but he still manages a playful chirp. “Already dead.”

A rumbling growl vibrates through Peter’s chest; Stiles half squawks, half giggles as he’s flipped and pinned to the disheveled sofa. “You know what I meant, you little shit.”

Stiles has long since lost count of the score, but he’s pretty sure he won.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure this could've been resolved with some common sense and careful planning, but it's not Stiles and Peter without the dramatics. 
> 
> If I've missed any tags or warnings, please let me know.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [asarcasticwitch](http://asarcasticwitch.tumblr.com).
> 
> Kudo and comments are much appreciated—thank you for reading!


End file.
